


Inbox (1)

by songsaboutdrowning



Category: Florabella - Fandom, Florence + the Machine
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - You've Got Mail Fusion, F/F, F/M, Hate to Love, Music Store, Rivalry, You've Got Mail AU, set in 2006
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-11
Updated: 2017-03-19
Packaged: 2018-09-23 14:35:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9661586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/songsaboutdrowning/pseuds/songsaboutdrowning
Summary: Two women. Two family businesses. One owns a music empire with her mother and grandmother, the other is an orphan running an independent record store.Now, the chain store is about to open just across the road from the little shop, threatening their livelihood, with all the drama that ensues.Luckily, our businesswomen each have an email confidante who they've never met. Or have they?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> …and so, she returns!! I recently joined another fandom that had a couple of You’ve Got Mail AUs, as it’s one of my favourite films I thought I’d put a Florabella spin on it. The fic is going to be in 10 parts, parts 1-5 and 7-10 have already been written, so you know that I can’t back out of this one!! Posting frequency will probably be once a week until I finish chapter 6 because that’s holding everything up - once that’s out of the way I might increase to 2 a week!
> 
> Thank you to those who have betaed this first chapter: Fiona, Rory, Kristian and Callum. Sorry that I didn’t take every single suggestion on board.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: There are entire snippets of emails taken from the movie word for word, so a disclaimer is due that those texts do not belong to me and I am using them without permission, but making no profit off them. Also the idea that Isa has a bulldog called Biggie is from Mia, and is used here with permission.  
> If you have seen the film don’t worry, other than the emails there are quite a lot of differences so this should still be enjoyable without feeling identical to something you’ve seen before.  
> If you’ve not seen the film also don’t worry as it will all be completely understandable, you just need to bear in mind I’ve had to set it in 2006 before social media was a thing, therefore the characters’ ages need to reflect that. Ideally I would have wanted both of them to be at least a couple of years older but it wouldn’t have worked the same way.

“Bye, honey.”

Florence felt the faintest hint of stubble on her forehead as Stuart leaned in to kiss her goodbye for the day. She kept her eyes closed and her breathing steady, but as soon as she heard the door lock she pushed the duvet off to one side and all but jumped out of bed. The computer was waiting next door, in the spare room Stuart used as a studio, a monstrosity perched on what used to be a vanity compared to Stuart’s sleek Macbook on his no-frills Ikea desk.

Florence pushed the “on” button whilst humming lightly under her breath. She pried the blinds open with two fingers to make sure that Stuart’s car was definitely gone; one of her biggest fears was for him to walk back into the flat, having forgotten something perhaps, only to find her wide awake, perky and tapping away furiously at her keyboard at a time in the morning when, up until a few weeks before, she would have been fast asleep. He had no idea of her regular interactions with halloween152 and she intended to keep it that way; or else she would be forced to admit that she’d been in a ‘Help: I’m almost thirty!’ chat room just mere days after turning twenty.

The computer, despite being second-hand, booted up before Florence could finish making her cup of tea. She darted back into the studio, leaving the kettle on next to a mug that would probably never be used, and she opened her browser before even being fully seated. She logged on to her email, and there it was, her new favourite word-number combination: _Inbox (1)_.

Subject: Biggie  
_Biggie is my dog. He loves being a Londoner, and particularly being able to eat kebabs right off the pavement when I walk him at 3 in the morning. I prefer to buy them, usually. Biggie is extremely talented and he was offered to go audition for one of those reality shows, but he chose to stay with me so he can spend 18 hours a day sleeping on a green pillow instead. We both love walking around in autumn especially. You know, the satisfaction you get when you step on a leaf that’s just the right amount of crunchy. I would send you the perfect crunchy leaf if I knew your name and address, but I have to admit, this not knowing has its charms._

Florence smiled, sharing the sentiment. She went back to the kitchen to give herself another chance at making tea while she pondered what to respond to her mysterious friend. She didn’t have any quirky pet stories of her own: Stuart was allergic to anything with hair, and in turn Florence had always found birds to be particularly creepy – as if they were always silently watching only to then go and spill your secrets to the world. And so, Florence continued her pet-less life, which didn’t stop her from still appreciating London in the autumn.

She started at the screen and furrowed her brow, thinking of something inspiring and intriguing to say. She knew full well that she wanted halloween152 to feel curious about her, but she would never admit it.

Subject: Dear Friend,  
_I like to start my emails to you as if we’re already in the middle of a conversation. I pretend that we’re the oldest and dearest friends, instead of what we actually are: people who don’t know each other’s names and met in a chat room where we both claimed we’d never been before.  
What will she say today, I wonder. I never used to look forward to getting out of bed in the morning, but now I do. I get really impatient while my computer is turning on!! I thought we’d have hoverboards by this point and instead it still takes longer than a minute for a machine to switch on. _

 _For someone living right across the road from a primary school,_ she typed, then remembering their ‘no personal details’ rule, she backspaced, _for someone who lives in a fairly noisy area, it is surprising how, when I open up my email, all I hear is the beat of my own heart when I see that 1 by my inbox. I have mail. From you._

She pressed Send without spellchecking, then stared at the screen which had gone back to her now fully-read mailbox. She took a sip of her tea, and sighed thinking of the day ahead. She used to have a very set routine, but things were different now that she spent her days in anticipation of the next email. Before, she started her day a lot later than Stuart did – she got dressed in the morning and then walked to her store, The Shop Around The Corner, stopping at Caffe’ Nero on the way because she wasn’t quite so lucky yet to have a Starbucks in her neighbourhood. She spent the day working with her team ordering new releases, trying to source rare vinyl from markets and shops that were closing down, and leafleting for more local acts to play their open mic nights, which more often than not resulted in Florence herself having to take a slot or two; they just didn’t have enough people signing up. She did her very best to keep her dad’s business going, having somehow fallen into that career, and deluding herself that she was a good businesswoman. She then walked back home, stopping at the supermarket on the way to grab something simple she and Stuart could make for dinner – she more so than him, as he usually didn’t get back until very late.

Recently, however, she’d gone to work at 10 in the morning thinking of halloween152 and got home at gone 7 o’clock, still thinking about halloween152. Sometimes, she forgot to buy food and had to leave the flat again. She got a lot less done, and she was just going through the motions. But as long as the books balanced and the store was making a profit, which Tom assured her they were, it was all good.

-=-

Elsewhere in London, Isabella Summers, heir of a music empire – her family owned a chain of record stores and their own label to boot – was surveying their most recent building site, one that she was particularly excited about as it was the first time she’d been in charge of a project from start to finish – and she was going to regularly DJ the after-hours events, which didn’t hurt. It was set to be one of their biggest stores yet, and the first of its kind in a South East postcode. Her business partner, Birdie, was briefing her on the day’s schedule, but she was only half listening.

“The electrician won’t get here until tomorrow, because his car broke down on the M25, and we had to send back a bunch of shelving units because they were the wrong fucking colour.”

“Good, very good,” was Isabella’s comment.  

“Also we got fined because the builders have been peeing off the roof, which is gross and embarrassing and not the kind of publicity that we need around here.”

Isa nodded. “Great, excellent, is the electrician coming today, by the way?”

Birdie shook her head. “See, I knew you weren’t paying attention.”

“You’re right… I wasn’t. _I hear nothing, not a sound on the city streets, just the beat of my own heart._ Is that how it goes? Something like that.”

Isa walked down the three steps to the section where they were going to have a café built. They were going to offer coffee and records – just like those big American chains that sold refreshments inside their bookstores.

“Did you and Christina get engaged or something?” Birdie asked.

“What? No! Jesus Christ, no.”

“I thought you liked this one, Iz.”

“I do like her. I love her, even. She’s intelligent. She’s intimidating. She manages bands. She makes coffee nervous.” Isa tried to revert the subject back to work. “Is this place gonna open on schedule? You know, even with all the drawbacks?”

“Mid-November. Right in time for the Christmas rush.”

“Then I think it’s time we announced ourselves.”

Birdie shook her head, her tightly coiled Afro bouncing in all directions. “Isa, this is South London. They love their independent stores and they’re proud of them. You should know – you grew up here, or so you tell me. They’re gonna line up to protest the big bad chain store and you know it.”  
  
“We will be _fine_. We’re going to seduce them. We’ve got the square footage and we are cheap… and,” Isa pointed over her shoulder to where their café area was going to be, “we serve drinks. And the listening stations have the entire stock file uploaded. People can listen to absolutely _anything_ that we stock on CD before they buy it, just by scanning the barcode. And they can do so while sitting in comfortable, deep, plushy armchairs. They’re gonna hate us in the beginning…”

“…but they’ll love us by the end.” Birdie completed the sentence. It was a conversation they’d already had several times.

“In the meantime, we’ll just put up a big sign: Coming soon – Machine Megastore - the end of music as you know it.”

-=-

Florence arrived at the store already overloaded with bags, which was the norm for her. Coffee in one hand, keys in the other – handbag on one arm and a tote with some records she’d bought on eBay slung across her shoulder. Inside, Rob was already trying to rearrange the singles into alphabetical order.

“I swear to god, Flo –“ he said, keeping his back to her through her cheerful hello, “for a store with an average of 12 customers per day, those 12 customers know how to make a fucking mess. Look at this! Someone stuck chewing gum to this headerboard!!”

Florence smiled. “Could be worse. They could have stuck it to a sleeve.”

“I’m still trying to scrape it off with my bare fingers and you’re lauding the fact that they’re not stooping _so_ low to actually damage the goods?”

“It’s such a beautiful day today, Rob. Don’t you just love London in the autumn?”

That got his attention. He turned around slowly and squinted at her. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing! Nothing,” Florence chuckled.

“You’re not usually like this, Flo. If you’ll pardon me saying, you’re one of the moodiest people I know. All this sunshine and rainbows can only mean one thing. You’re in love.”

“What? No! I mean yes – I’m in love with Stuart. I’m practically living with Stuart!”

Rob grabbed a framed record that was hanging on the wall to his right, and held it up with a look of defiance. “Tell me what’s going on or Trains In Trouble here gets it.”

Florence went white as a sheet. Trains In Trouble was a lucky find at a flea market and it was probably over 40 years old. She would never find another copy if something were to happen to this one.

“Okay okay okay okay,” she extended her arms as if wanting to snatch it back from him, but he immediately relaxed and popped it back on its hook. He knew he’d won.

Florence crossed her arms and circled the counter so she could go stand behind it and put some sort of a barrier between her and Rob.

“Is it infidelity if you exchange emails with someone?”

Rob raised an eyebrow. “Have you had sex?”

“No!!” Florence looked horrified. “This is someone I’ve never met.”

“I mean cybersex, Flo.”

“Cybersex? Jeez, it’s not the 90s any more. Everybody used to be so worried about using the internet for sex, and nobody stops to think that it can actually be a lot more intimate if you start talking to someone and you find it really easy to tell them what’s on your mind.”

Florence had a tendency to talk too much and too fast when she was nervous or vulnerable, and Rob was pretty apt at reading between the lines. He’d known her for long enough, after all. He went up to the counter and leaned towards her until they were exactly eye to eye. He could stare her down until she told the truth, for sure.

“Where did you meet him?”

“Her,” Florence corrected. “Well, it’s kinda stupid. On my birthday, I went into this chat room for a joke, and she was there, we started talking in private –“

“What about?” He interrupted.

“Music and books and how much we both love London and… Harmless, you know, meaningless… Dogs, and crunchy leaves and…”

“Wait, what?”

“Forget it. The bottom line is, we made a rule not to share any personal details, so I don’t know her name, or what she does, just that she lives in London – or so she says, anyway. It should be easy to stop seeing her because… I’m not. Seeing her, I mean. We just email. It’s nothing.”

Rob shook his head. “She could be literally anyone. She could be the next person to walk into the store!”

Mairead entered the store just then. A little older than Florence and a lot more together, she helped out with the business both as a salesperson and running the store’s monthly DJ set. She looked up at Rob to try and figure out what kind of conversation she’d just walked in on.

“She could be _Mairead_ ,” Rob whispered so that only Florence would hear him. “Mairead, do you use the internet much?”

“The internet, as far as I’m concerned, is just another way for men to reject me.” She shrugged as she continued on to the stock room.

“Ah, I guess that rules her out, then,” Rob grinned at Florence. “In more ways than one.”

Tom walked in next. He was the longest standing member of their little team, having helped Florence’s dad with the record store since before Flo herself. These days, he wasn’t around much because he’d been lucky enough to find work as a session musician, but he was still the only person they trusted enough to manage their finances.

“What are you children talking about?” He scowled.

Wanting to make the girls uncomfortable, Rob piped up, “Cybersex!”

“I tried having cybersex once, but the girl asked me to touch her like I play my harp and I was horrified. Couldn’t look at my harp for two weeks after that.” He shuddered.

Everybody laughed. Tom held the door and turned around their sign from “closed” to “open”, clearly signalling the end of that conversation.

-=-

Isabella needed to report on the progress with the building site to none other than her mother and grandmother; the latter having started the family-business-turned-empire a few decades ago. She’d opened the first store with her late husband – the first of many (both stores and husbands) – without many aspirations. But they had a good location and some valuable contacts, and soon they found themselves putting another shop out of business, then being offered to take over their premises. It went without saying that at the time, people assumed Isabella’s late grandfather was the brains behind the operation, but really it was Maureen Summers who was hungry for success and wanted to give her only daughter a better life. Within 10 years, they had a dozen stores throughout the country, and a head office in Central overlooking the Thames.

Isabella was now in that very office, in her grandmother’s favourite conference room, waiting for her mother to join them, making strained chit chat.

“Your mother is getting married again,” Maureen said, though why she looked annoyed wasn’t clear since she herself had been married four times.

“To Kevin? Why would she do that?” Kevin was the latest in Isabella’s mother’s string of boy-toys. She didn’t have the best taste in men, or anything else – Isa was currently leaning on a cushion that looked like Cookie Monster had been skinned alive – but she was a shrewd businesswoman, at least.  

“Love, probably.”

Neither Maureen nor Gillian had ever managed to stay alone for long. They jumped from relationship to relationship, and so did Isabella, for that matter, but she’d never been reckless enough to take it to the next level and actually enter a marriage.

“She’s a fool, if you ask me,” she told Maureen.

“Who’s a fool?” Her mother asked from the doorway with an expectant little smirk.

Isa managed to expertly avoid the question and change the subject to one she cared about far more than Gillian’s love life.

“The person who thought putting a specialist jazz shop in Forest Hill was a good idea. Sadly, they’re going under, which I’m sure is _completely_ unexpected. And I’m going to buy their entire inventory.” She shot finger guns up in the air.

“How much are you paying?” Maureen asked.

“Whatever it takes,” Isa shrugged. “They’ve got a massive catalogue, and most of that stuff is out of print. That would be because no one in their right mind would go all the way there for some CDs, obviously. It’s probably all been gathering dust since before I could walk. But they’re gonna buy it from Machine, because we’re better known, and we serve cocktails, and we’re also gonna have a vinyl section, you know, for the nostalgic.”

“Sucking up to the neighbourhood, are you?” Maureen nodded in approval.

“Well, at least it’s going to keep those pretentious, pseudo-intellectual hipsters…”

“Customers, Mum.” Isa interrupted. “They’re called customers.”  

“Don’t do that, darling, don’t romanticise them,” Gillian went to sit at the table next to Maureen, rather than on the other Cookie Monster cushion. “It’s going to keep them from throwing bricks at you.”

Maureen sighed, exasperated by the constant clashes between her daughter and granddaughter. She tried to change the subject, “So who’s left now for competition?”

“One mystery store, Hays, and this one place that’s been there forever, The Shop Around The Corner or something.”

Isa’s grandmother’s eyes widened in shock. “Nick’s store.”

“Who?”

“Nick Welch… I think we had a date once. Maybe we wrote to each other? Actual letters, I mean, with pen and paper. I can’t remember. I did exchange letters with a few gentlemen once your mum went off to Uni. I felt lonely. He was much too young for me, maybe we never went on a date, now that I think of it. He was a character, though. Really peculiar. His daughter owns it now.”

“Too bad for her,” was Gillian’s only comment.


	2. Chapter 2

From: halloween152  
To: Queenofpeace  
 _So, my mum is getting married again. I don’t know if this is too personal to say. But my mum has terrible taste in interior decorating, and even worse taste in men._

From: Queenofpeace   
To: halloween152  
 _I guess it’s just as well that we don’t know each other in real life. The other day I lost my phone, and I’m too embarrassed to tell anyone. I’ve tried to ring it but the battery must have died and I’m not even sure if it’s at home or at work. No one seems to have realised yet, though, so that’s good._

From: halloween152  
To: Queenofpeace  
 _the one thing that no one can guess about me is that I am a rap enthusiast. I just don’t look like one._

From: Queenofpeace   
To: halloween152  
 _Confession: I love to look for really unusual records. I have one that’s all different trains in different kinds of trouble. One that’s all sound clips from horror films. And lullabies for cats. You should try that, maybe. It might help with your insomnia._

From: halloween152  
To: Queenofpeace   
_The whole purpose of places like Starbucks is for people with no decision-making ability whatsoever to make 6 decisions just about one cup of coffee. Cappuccino, macchiato, latte. Small, medium, large… why on earth is the smallest drink called Tall?? So, people who don’t know what the hell they’re doing or who they are can, for only £3, get not just a cup of coffee, but an absolutely defining sense of self!_

-=-

Another day, another drink from Caffe’ Nero. Except now, Florence felt halloween152 like a fuzzy presence at the back of her mind, judging her for her weak decision-making ability.

It was difficult to picture someone’s face frowning in disapproval when she didn’t know what the person looked like in the first place. She could have blond hair, dark hair, maybe she was another ginger? Blue eyes or brown, tall or short… the possibilities just as vast as her options when ordering coffee.

The emails they sent each other were completely disjointed. They didn’t really follow a topic-reply-topic-reply order. Sometimes she’d think of something that she wanted to tell halloween152, and she jotted it down on a notebook or a post-it. Halloween152 would then respond with something completely irrelevant. It helped them talk about lots of different things, but never in depth.

Florence stayed lost in her musings even when she walked past a big building site. ‘Coming soon – a Machine Megastore’, the sign outside read, but she didn’t even look up, wrapped up as she was in self-commiseration. She’d have to make herself more interesting to halloween152. She didn’t want to be just another weakling who got her morning stimulant from a big chain store.

Minutes later, Mairead stormed into The Shop Around The Corner, uncharacteristically frantic. “Guys!! Guys!! Have you seen what they’re building out there?” Florence looked up from her morning paperwork, completely oblivious.

-=-

The three of them stood across the road from the Machine Megastore sign.

“It’s nothing to do with us,” Florence declared. “They are big, they are impersonal. Their sales assistants will be ignorant and unhelpful and only in it for the money – just like they are.”

“But they discount,” Mairead pointed out.

“They don’t provide a service. _We_ do.”

“They have fortnightly DJ-sets.” Mairead insisted. “And cocktails.”

Rob got his phone out of his pocket.

“I’m calling Tom. He needs to see this, too.”

-=-

Florence decided it was best if she and Tom could talk business in private, so they went out for lunch and left the other two waiting.

“It’s a good development.” She said between bites of her panini. “You know how on Denmark Street they only have musical instrument stores? And when you want to buy something, one of them’s bound to have it? This will be the same, but for records. This could be the music district. If they don’t have it, we do.”

“And vice-versa,” Tom deadpanned, but Florence didn’t understand the implications.

“Absolutely!” She said happily. She licked her fingers and winked at Tom, who just sighed and averted his gaze.

-=-

Stuart was possibly more incensed about the whole thing than Florence herself.

“When we are finished with Machine, The Shop Around The Corner is going to be single handedly responsible for taking down a capitalist giant.“

“That is so sweet, Stuart. Thank you! Although, I feel like lately…” She moved in to hug him, then spotted something over his shoulder. “Wait, what is that?”

One of the many contradictions of Stuart’s life, Florence imagined. He wrote for an indie music magazine, felt extremely strongly about anyone who still decided to record in analog, seemingly despised the new ways that people were making connections online such as Myspace, and yet a shiny new Macbook, which looked exactly like Stuart’s other one, just without any scratches, was sitting on the kitchen table.

“That’s a Macbook 2. Here, let me show you.” He opened the lid. “Look at all these _colours_! The _clarity_ of this picture!!”

“I know where I heard that before.” Florence ran into the spare room, where she picked up Macbook number one, and returned to the kitchen holding it up with one hand, the other on her hip, looking exasperated. “Don’t you have another one of these at your flat?”

“Maybe I do.” He shrugged. “Who cares? What were you going to say?”

Florence thought for a minute that, if they ever moved in together, Stuart would find himself having three of the exact same laptop. “Nothing.”

“Come on!”

“I’m wondering about my work – what is it that I do, exactly? All I really do is run this little store…”

“All you really do is this _incredible_ , noble thing!” Stuart was desperate to distract Florence with some easy flattery. “You are honest, you are passionate. You are… a lone reed.”

He sat down at the kitchen table, opening a blank note on the new Macbook in which he typed _You are a lone reed, standing tall in the corrupt sands of commerce._

“A lone reed,” Florence echoed. She wondered what halloween152’s opinion would be on that. She knew she’d have to wait until the next day before she could even ask. Or perhaps only until Stuart fell asleep, then she could slip out of bed and… why was it that the most valuable opinion wasn’t the one of the person in the room with her?

Subject: A lone reed  
 _Sometimes I wonder about my life. I lead a small life, she typed as quietly as she could. Well, valuable but small. Do I do it because I like it, or because I haven’t been brave? So much of what I see reminds me of something I read in a book when – shouldn’t it be the other way around? I don’t really want an answer, I just want to send this cosmic question out into the void. So, goodnight, dear void._

-=-

It was funny that Isabella was good with children, considering she wasn’t really planning on having any of her own. She wasn’t even sure she ever wanted to get married – although the outside world had made it perfectly clear to her that she should do and that, in fact, she was running a little behind schedule on that front.

She was more than fine with other people’s kids, though – the kind that you only had to spend time with every once in a while. She had the perfect personality, and a big enough bank account, for that ‘cool auntie’ title – except in this specific case, _she_ was actually the niece.

Jim was her grandmother’s son, born when Isa was just fourteen. She’d warmed up to the new arrival more so than her mother had, because who wanted to be dealing with a little brother in their early thirties? Still, it was Gillian who dropped him off by the house-boat that morning, together with whatever-his-name-was that she was about to marry this time. For all her pressures that Isa should be thinking about settling down by now, her mother hadn’t exactly provided a shining example.

“Hey, Isa, you alright? Come give your soon to be wicked stepfather a hug.”

Isa let herself be hugged but did not respond, choosing instead to wonder if her ‘wicked stepfather’ was even older than her in the first place. Although did it really matter when her uncle was about to turn twelve? Her family were messed up.

Isa forced out a smile. “So, where you off to while I look after this one?”

“HEY –“ Jim started, in clear disagreement with the idea that he needed to be ‘looked after’. Little did he know that Isa was looking forward to his company as much as he was looking forward to hers. She liked to leave her responsibilities behind, once in a while – Birdie would be overseeing the building works and she would be taking little Jim to the funfair, the library and to Nando’s, the clear winner in this situation.

“I’m getting my eggs harvested,” her mother said. For some reason, her motivation for that seemed to be a strong disgust for Jim which she wasn’t exactly trying to hide. Isabella felt sorry for the little dude.

“Okay then, bye bye now.” She watched the outline of her mother and her dim-witted companion walk away, then turned to her uncle and said, “Want to get on the boat?”

He surprised her by saying no – he’d kind of grown out his niece owning a moored house-boat by the time he was nine, especially when everyone else in the family also had one. It wasn’t particularly impressive; just a small little barge that Isabella used as a studio when she needed inspiration. She’d always had an interest in producing music, but her schedule didn’t leave much time for hobbies at the moment. Still, when the South East Machine took off, she could maybe take her foot off the pedal for a while and start a side business, like her mother had started the label.

Jim’s alternative plan was to still go to the fun fair – throwing balls at a stack of tins was as powerful as he got to feel at his age – and to still go to Nando’s, as well, with an added detour to a comic book store that Isa had absolutely zero interest in.

On their way back from dinner, they walked past an old-looking record store, with a bright yellow exterior and a window that sported more tacky Halloween decorations than actual music. Isa looked at her watch and thought a shop like that should have been closed at that time, but soft guitar notes were coming from the inside, and a sandwich board stood outside announcing an open mic evening after 6pm.

When Jim asked if they could go in, Isabella indulged him. He needed to see how the other half lived, really, ready for whenever his mother started to initiate him into the family business. When Isa was younger, they had made her shadow nearly every department at Machine. She’d done a week as a cashier as soon as she’d been legally old enough to work, a week as stockroom manager; they’d put her in Buying and they’d even put her in Marketing, although she never had a say on any of the final decisions. Jim was headed for that exact same fate, only the company was bigger now so he had even more to learn, and each and any experience of how the competition operated was probably going to help in some way.

The person playing guitar was a big guy, ordinary looking, with broad shoulders and so concentrated he almost looked cross. He was sitting on their counter, next to a tall, lanky girl with long ginger hair who sang a cover of At Last in soft dulcet tones while people either browsed the shelves or sat around the duo on benches and picnic chairs that had clearly been crammed in the middle of the room for the occasion. Jim went to sit down, while Isabella chose to roam the various sections of the store – they had a lot, for a small place, CDs and vinyl and a second-hand section at the back of the store which is what most of the clientele seemed to be interested in.

Framed records hung on the walls, but Isabella never noticed that one of them was called “Trains In Trouble.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Machine Megastore finally opens and the financial damage to The Shop Around The Corner is immediate. Meanwhile, Florence discovers Isabella's true identity.

The next time Isabella looked around the space, she saw Jim talking to the girl who had been singing. She was holding about four CDs at once in her long fingers, and going over each one with the boy, explaining how the drummer for this one had also produced this other one by a completely different band, or how the cover for Abbey Road was so famous, it didn’t even need The Beatles’ name on it.

“I think I’m going to get all of them,” Isabella heard Jim say.

Florence looked up to see a very small woman approaching them both, with peroxide blond hair, big black-lined eyes and a sheepish smile. “That’s a lot for your mum to buy all at once.”

“My mum gets me all the records I want.”

“Well, that’s very nice of her.”

Florence winked, but the short woman’s smile quickly turned into a scowl. “Excuse you, I am not old enough for this to be my kid.”

“That’s my niece,” Jim grinned at Florence, who looked absolutely befuddled.

“I’m sorry, I… what?” She kept looking from the woman to the kid and back, expecting to be told any minute that it was some kind of joke.

Isabella took some solace in the fact the tables had turned, and the girl was now the embarrassed one. “It’s true. Jim’s my grandmother’s son, which makes him my uncle. We’re a very modern family.” She shrugged.

Jim chose that moment to sneeze loudly, and without missing a beat, Florence produced a handkerchief from her pocket and handed it to him.

“What’s that?”

“It’s a handkerchief. My god, do children these days not know what a handkerchief is?? It’s a tissue, except you don’t throw it away. Look, it’s embroidered with my initials: F.W., and a little witch hat because when I was little, I wanted to be a witch,” she giggled.

This girl was childlike enough to be able to talk to Jim on his level, Isa mused, and also mature enough that she was guiding him in his choices of music, something that could have a huge impact on him in his immediate future. Isabella would have done it herself if she’d had more time to spend with him, but Jim was away at boarding school for most of the year. The Summers didn’t have time for their offspring any more, it seemed; Isabella had been brought up by her grandmother when there was still just a handful of stores to look after, but things were very different now.

Isa looked up at the tall sales assistant, fascinated by her manner and her knowledge. “May I ask who you are?”

“Florence Welch. I own this store. And you are?”

Isa found herself very flustered. Replying with her full name was out of the question. “Isa. Isabella. But Isa for short.” She stuttered. “Just call me Isa.”

Mairead butted in, taking the mix of CDs and vinyl that Isa was holding. “You’re going to come back, right?”

That was more of a commitment than Isa was prepared to make, but she wasn’t exactly in a position where she could have said no. So she nodded.

“This is why we’re never going out of business.” Mairead declared.

“They’re opening a Machine Megastore around the corner,” Florence explained.

Jim seemed to come to life then, and almost joined in the conversation but Isabella elbowed him before he could say anything compromising. “My mum –“

“Yes, your mum, my grandma, shops there all the time, but that’s nothing to be proud of.” Isa’s eyes widened and she hoped it was clear that she needed Jim to not say another word. “Here,” she took a tenner out of her purse and handed it to him, “go get yourself a hot chocolate and get me a large white Americano, I’ll be out in a second, okay?”

Isa didn’t want or need him to hear a single thing she was about to say.

“The world is not driven by discounts,” Florence went on. “I’ve been in business forever. I used to help my dad here even as a child. I used to watch him. He arranged the open mics for those people who felt they had something to say and didn’t have a platform to say it. Sure, not all of them were good, but we couldn’t turn them away and ultimately, he was helping people become who they wanted to be.”

Isabella blinked, dumbfounded, and thought that maybe she needn’t have worried about lying in front of Jim, as she hadn’t been able to get a word in edgeways. Florence seemed to realise this.

“Sorry – I got carried away.”

“You did, but it made me feel… peculiar. Your dad must be… peculiar. A character.” Isa’s grandmother’s words came back to her.

“Yes, he was. How did you know that?”

“You’ve got a picture of him right there. Is that you in the picture with him? What are you doing?”

Isabella pointed at a picture of a young Florence and her dad making funny faces.

“We used to act. When the store was closed and we were cleaning up – we put together these shows, you see. Like when you play a game and each person writes a sentence… I chose what I wanted to be and we just played off each other. Kinda like improv, if you will. He left the store to me, and I’m going to leave it to my child.” Florence kept playing with the rings on her fingers, and Isa didn’t quite understand why she looked so nervous. Had she recognised her? She knew that her family had been featured in magazines, but Florence Welch didn’t look like the kind of person who read The Economist.

“You have a child? How old?” Isabella wanted to know more, but also didn’t want to be reminded of her own aimlessness when it came to her personal life plans.

Florence seemed to snap out of her dream-like state and rushed to explain, “No, no, I don’t have children, but I want to get married, eventually. So big bad Machine can just… go to hell.”

Isabella tried to force her lips into a smile, took the canvas tote Florence was dangling in front of her, and said her goodbyes.

-=-

Three generations of Summers, plus Birdie, sat at the café inside the megastore on opening day, watching the bustle of locals roaming their aisles for the very first time.

Isa smirked. “No protest, no demonstration… the neighbourhood love us.”

Everyone agreed.

“They’re wondering where we’ve been all these years… they’re wondering how they managed without us.” Birdie said. “It’s a hit!”

Isabella’s mother, on the other hand, couldn’t resist a little jibe. “How’s the vinyl doing?”

“It will be a little while before they warm up to that. Besides, that shop around the corner is still going.”

Maureen came to life at the mention. “Nick’s store! I think we might have had a date once.”

“His daughter owns it now.” Isabella reminded her, but thought best not to add that she’d now met the girl in the flesh.

Gillian smirked. “We’ll crush it.”

-=-

“They’ve been open six days, and we’ve already lost £400 on the same week last year.”

The Shop Around The Corner had just closed for the day, and the hard verdict came from Tom, holed up in the cubicle they called an office.

“Their store is new. It’s a novelty. Give it time.” Florence pleaded. Now more than ever, she was afraid that Tom was going to walk out. He clearly didn’t want to stick around to see the shop fail.

“What if we have to close? I’m never gonna find another part time job that will also let me DJ and do my radio show.”

“Well isn’t everybody being a little ray of sunshine today,” Rob mumbled. “This place is doomed.”

Someone knocked on the store window. Before Florence could shout “We’re closed!” she recognised the silhouette of an old friend, Kate Nash. She and Florence used to perform at the same open mic nights when they were younger, and it followed that when Florence took over The Shop Around The Corner Kate would guest every once in a while. The Shop Around The Corner was one of the first few places that had been selling Kate’s first EP, and she even did a very small-scale signing there one afternoon. It was very nice of her to come round and see how they were doing. Maybe they could arrange a concert to save The Shop Around The Corner or something.

“Are you surviving?” Was the first thing Kate asked when Florence opened the door to let her in. She looked really concerned.

“Hello, darling, how are you?” Florence hugged her. “We’re doing just fine, really. We’re doing well. And you’ve got a new EP coming out, and we’re looking forward to your next signing!”

“It’s not out until February. Are you going to be in business then?”

“We’re doing great, Tom, aren’t we?”

Tom poked his head out of the office door and shouted at Kate. “No difference whatsoever!”

“Thank god! Remember, you can count on me for anything – support, we can get the media involved, maybe put something on Myspace… write to a few magazines, maybe we can get that crazy dude involved, you know, Stuart something? The one who wrote an article about being in love with his Macbook? This is just the sort of thing that would _outrage_ him!”

-=-

“She called me crazy?? She doesn’t even know me!” They were on their way to a dinner party that one of Stuart’s colleagues was throwing at his fancy six bedroom house, and Florence had just told him about Kate’s choice of words for him.

“That’s not the point – the point is, she thinks I’m gonna go bust. Why would she think that? There is enough business for us all! We’re doing _fine_!”

“You’re more than fine, you’re absolutely fine –” Stuart said just as a woman he’d never seen before opened the door to the house. Florence rolled her eyes and braced herself for the inevitable string of greetings, handshakes and polite smiles to people whose identity she didn’t know. She was probably familiar with maybe four of Stuart’s colleagues, and she liked two of them at best.

In the middle of a small clump stood Isabella, who’d been dragged there by Christina and knew even fewer people than Florence did. It wasn’t that she didn’t like crowds, she was fine with them as long as there was also loud music blaring from somewhere – even better when she herself was in charge of the DJ decks – and no human interaction was required. Unfortunately, the elevator music that someone had put on in the background at this party was so forgettable, there might as well have been a deafening silence.  Isabella had little to distract herself – she knew better than to get pissed around industry people, and considering her small size she had to really limit her drinking or she’d be over the edge in less than an hour.

A flash of red caught her eye, and she trained her gaze onto none other than Florence Welch, shopkeeper extraordinaire and star of her own open mic nights. She saw her wave her way through the crowd hand in hand with a man who was just as lanky as she was, and who was wearing an actual tweed jacket with elbow patches. Florence had a blouse on that tied with a ribbon around her neck, and tan shorts that exposed endless legs full of… scratches and bruises? Isa arched an eyebrow – working in a store could sometimes be physically demanding, but that looked like a little too much damage. Frilly socks tucked into a pair of Oxfords completed Florence’s look; the pair were the embodiment of what Isa’s mother had called ‘pseudo-intellectual hipsters’.

Isabella instinctively took a step back and tried to hide behind Christina’s shoulder. If they bumped into each other, she wasn’t so sure that she could keep her surname and lineage secret, this time. She excused herself from the group and went to get another drink, positioning herself next to a large, burly man that she hoped would block her out of Florence’s view. But the man left almost immediately and of course, Florence had to be standing right on the other side of him and as much as Isabella tried to look down and away and let her hair fall in front of her face just so, Florence noticed her straight away.

In fairness, her eyes softened immediately, and she seemed genuinely pleased to see Isa there. “Hey. Do you remember me? From the record store?” She asked. “How’s your uncle?”

“Yes, of course I do.” Isa shifted her weight from the balls of her feet to her heels and back – which she was an expert at, even in stilettos. “I’m so sorry, I need to bring this to my… date.” Growing up in the Nineties, Isa had had to learn to use gender-neutral words - and she was a master at it.

“Isa, right?”

“Yes, yes that’s me. And you’re Florence.” And with that, Isabella stalked off before Florence had a chance to add more.

-=-

Tail between her legs, Florence set off to look for whatever pretentious conversation group Stuart had wormed his way into, but one of the two colleagues of his that she _did_ know – one of his bosses in fact, Jason or Justin or some other name with a J, approached her with a concerned look on his face.

“I can’t believe you were just talking to Isabella Summers.”

Florence’s ears started ringing. “Isabella Summers?”

“Isabella Summers.”

“As in..?”

“As in,” he lowered his voice, “ _The Machiiiiiine._ ”

Justin – or Jason or whatever – walked off as if this was somehow Florence’s fault. She’d heard disappointment in his voice – disappointment from a man who she’d met no more than twice before that night. She started to feel rage inside; she knew without even looking that her cheeks were probably bright red, and her heart – her heartbeat was travelling slowly upwards, towards her throat. She needed to find Isabella. ‘Just call me Isa’, my ass.

She found the tiny woman by the buffet.

“Summers? Your last name is _Summers_? I didn’t realise, I didn’t know…”

“Who you were with?” On seeing Florence’s confused look, Isabella tried to put on an accent. “ _I didn’t know who you were with_ – sorry, it’s from the Godfather. It’s when the movie producer realises that Tom Hagen is an emissary of Vito Corleone. Just before the horse’s head ends up in the bed with all the bloody sheets, and he wakes up and it’s like ‘Aaah, aaaahhh…’ Never mind.”

“You were spying on me, weren’t you? You probably rented that kid.”

“Why would I spy on you?”

Florence was torn between feeling pure rage and not wanting to cause a scene, so she ended up stage-whispering. “Because I am your competition, which you know perfectly well, or else you wouldn’t have put up that sign saying that your store was ‘just around the corner’!”

She punctuated each word by tilting her glass towards Isa, coming extremely close to spilling her drink every single time.

Isabella took a defensive step back. “The entrance to my store is around the corner and there’s no other way of saying that. It’s not the _name_ of my store, it’s where it _is_. You don’t own the phrase ‘around the corner’.”

The best thing she could think of doing to look like she wasn’t bothered was to reach for the nearest spoon on the table and keep filling up her plate. She didn’t realise she was just scooping up cranberry sauce without anything to dip in it whatsoever.  

“What are you doing?” Florence was getting louder – clearly meaning to attract attention to their little exchange. “You’re taking all the cranberry sauce? That sauce is a garnish.”

Just to spite her, Isabella took another spoonful, heaped this time.

“I came to your store because I was spending the day with Jim. I was buying him presents. Your shop was open late that evening, so we went in. And, look, it’s a charming little shop. You probably make what, £350k a year?”

Florence’s jaw set. “How did you know that?”

“I’m in the music business.” Isa shrugged.

“No, _I’m_ in the music business.”

“And I’m what, Lidl? I’m just like Lidl, only instead of a gallon of milk for under £1, we sell cheap CDs. Yes, Florence, I _absolutely_ spied on you. I was so concerned about your inconsequential little store when I obtained your sales figures, that I had to rush over for fear that it would put me out of business.”  

Florence stood, mouth agape, scrambling for something to say. But Stuart made it to the pair and tried to introduce himself to whatever friend Florence had managed to make at the party – which was an unprecedented event.

Only when Isa replied, “Isabella Summers” and extended her hand, Stuart withdrew his and just asked how she slept at night.

And suddenly Christina was there and was expounding the virtues of taking two tablets of magnesium before bedtime and she recognised Stuart. Not just had a vague recollection of him, no, she knew his first name, his last name, and every article he’d written in the past two years.

Florence tugged on his hand again and again, wanting to leave Isabella Summers and what appeared to be her girlfriend – a talent agent, no less! – but now she was introducing herself, Christina Something, and she was telling Isabella who Stuart was, and Isabella was introducing Florence in return, and Florence had nowhere to look. Her eyes met Isa’s again and again and again and she knew her discomfort must have been clear as the light of day. Isabella, on the other hand, looked like she was enjoying herself immensely, and made a point of really exaggerating her reactions, commenting “hmmm” and “wow” whenever she had a chance. Florence wasn’t quite sure who exactly Isa was mocking.

Eventually, though, she must have had enough too, because she started dragging Christina away, and the two couples separated, with Stuart and Christina promising to stay in touch. As soon as they were far enough away, Florence tried hard to stifle down her tears, and asked if they could please go home.

-=-

In Isabella’s house, Christina had just tucked herself into bed. “I had no idea Stuart Hammond was going to be so down to earth. You read his stuff and you think he’s going to be so pompous and out of touch.” Gillian’s voice played in Isabella’s mind, once again saying _pseudo-intellectual hipster_. “He’s always talking about philosophers and novelists and I have no idea what any of it is about, really.”

“I’m not tired.” The duvet was making Isa feel tied down and trapped. She sat on the edge of the bed and stood up. “I don’t think I can sleep just yet.”

She wondered why no reply was coming, but Christina was already out like a light. Two tablets of magnesium, indeed.

-=-

It took her a while to process why she felt a little bit guilty for how she’d snapped at Florence at the dinner party. The girl was only trying to do her best, and she got it – Isa got it, her company must seem like a massive threat to The Shop Around The Corner. But it wasn’t personal. Florence herself seemed like an alright person – if a little annoying – and she probably shouldn’t have lectured her.   

From: halloween152  
To: queenofpeace  
Subject: In case you’re wondering, I’m not perfect  
 _Do you ever feel like you become the worst version of yourself? That a Pandora’s Box of all the secret hateful parts - your arrogance, your spite, your condescension - has sprung open. Someone provokes you, and instead of just smiling and moving on, you zing them. Hello, it’s Miss Nasty. I’m sure you have no idea what I’m talking about._

From her little studio room, Florence shook her head. She wanted to reply straight away, but she was embarrassed to admit that her reaction to being provoked was usually the exact opposite. The fact she was still wide awake three hours after getting home proved it: her conversation with Isabella Summers had shaken her to her core, and stolen all sleep away from her.

But halloween152 was her dear friend, and after a few days she had managed to metabolise what happened and put into words the way she felt. Her fear of being judged had been pushed into the farthest corner of her mind.

From: queenofpeace  
To: halloween152  
 _No, I know what you mean, and I’m completely jealous. What happens to me when I’m provoked is that I get tongue-tied. My mind goes blank. Then I spend all night tossing and turning trying to figure out what I should have said. What should I have said, for example, to the bottom dweller who recently belittled my existence?_

“Nothing,” Florence said out loud. Then she typed, _Nothing, even now, a week later, I can’t figure it out._

-=-

From: halloween152  
To: queenofpeace  
 _Wouldn’t it be wonderful if I could pass all my zingers to you and then I would never behave badly and you could behave badly all the time and we’d both be happy? But then on the other hand, I must warn you that when you finally have the pleasure of saying the thing you mean to say, at the moment you mean to say it, remorse inevitably follows._

Isa glanced in the direction of the bedroom, as if Christina was going to get up and catch her in the act at any given moment. She was staying with her for a few days; she thought having someone around all the time could perhaps distract her from the guilt she still felt. Instead, here she was creeping out of the bedroom after Christina had fallen asleep, something at the back of her mind telling Isa that what she was doing was wrong and disrespectful.

_Do you think we should meet?_ She lifted her fingers from the keyboard as if it was on fire, as if someone else had typed those words. She shut her eyes tight and fumbled for the trackpad button that would seal the fate of her email. Maybe if she didn’t look then it hadn’t really happened.

But it had happened. Florence stared at the screen the next morning, mouthing along with the words, sounding them out loud like it could somehow change their meaning.

“Oh my god,” she murmured. “Oh my god.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m so gutted that I didn’t manage to fit this in the fic, but I really wanted to mention that a magazine did a write-up of the Summers family and titled it “Rise of the Machines” but I. Could. Not. Make. It. Flow.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Isabella runs into Florence at the supermarket. Later on, Florence discovers that the best life advice comes from The Godfather. And apparently that involves saying mean things on live television.

She had to be at work in half an hour, and even though she knew that she wouldn’t be able to concentrate on anything all day, she had to at least try. She was already dressed; all she had to do was put one foot in front of the other, walk to the store, and maybe discuss the situation with one or more of her coworkers if they could make the conscious choice for once to not be obnoxious about it.

She still didn’t deny herself the ritual of her morning coffee; at the rate business was going, opening 10 minutes later was going to make no difference whatsoever. She didn’t see Isabella Summers stirring a drink just a few steps away from where she was ordering hers. She didn’t see her hide her face behind a folded-up newspaper and make a hasty exit, rushing towards her despicable megastore.

Suddenly, Isabella Summers was inescapable. Florence would be writing something on the sandwich board outside her shop, and she’d see her across the road, with giant sunglasses and bejewelled hands, like a kid who wants to appear a lot older than she is. She’d see her walk back from the pound shop with carrier bags full of tat, no doubt in some Americanised attempt to reward her employees with sweets for Fucking Up The Least Times That Week. The last straw was when she was looking for mince pies in her local supermarket and Isabella walked in; it was impossible not to notice her, as she wore a flashy leopard print coat almost every single day.

It was now early December and people had started to clock that Christmas was coming, so there had been a surge in shoppers everywhere. The supermarket was packed enough that Florence had to queue for a whole five minutes before being able to put her items on the belt, and that was five minutes longer than she wanted to be visible and vulnerable to Isabella Summers and her cruelty.

As the cashier scanned and bagged her items, Florence fished out the twenty she’d got out the cashpoint earlier that morning, only to be greeted with a scowl when her eyes met the other girl’s.

“This is a card only till.”

Florence blinked. She patted her pockets, but she knew full well that she’d left her flat with just her keys and a bit of cash. She hadn’t seen the point bringing her entire handbag just for a quick trip to get herself and Stuart some dinner.

“I’m sorry, I only have this. Is that okay?”

Some guy queuing behind her thought it was his place to answer. “No, it’s not okay! There’s a sign!”

Other customers started asking him what was wrong, and he made himself the spokesperson, stage-whispering back, “She only has cash!”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Get in another queue.” Someone said from further back.

Florence’s hands started to shake and she could feel redness spreading through her face from the chin up. And of course, of fucking course, Isabella Summers materialised at her side, looking at the cashier and her Croydon facelift from above her sunglasses – seriously, it was _December_ – and asking “What seems to be the problem?”

“She only has cash!” The man behind Florence butted in again.

Isa ignored him and asked Florence in a low voice, “Do you need some money?”

“No!” She said through gritted teeth. “I don’t need any money.”

The cashier rolled her eyes. “Get. In. Another. Queue.”

“Hi – Annabel – that is a great name, Annabel. This is Florence. I’m Isa.”

“And I’m Joe to you,” the man behind Florence chimed. What a bloody attention seeker.

“Hi Joe, how are you? Merry Christmas! Now look,” Isabella turned her attention to the cashier, “I know that you’ve probably already cashed up for the night and if even just one more person pays cash you’ll have to recount everything. I get it. Merry Christmas, Annabel. It’s your turn to say Merry Christmas back.”

Annabel eyed Isabella suspiciously. “Merry Christmas… back?”

Florence could swear she heard Isa giggle.

“Knock knock.”

Annabel had quite visibly slowed down in chewing her gum now, and almost smiled back at Isabella. “Who’s there?”

“Orange.” Isa tucked her sunglasses on the top of her head and smirked. Was she trying to seduce this girl? Jesus fucking Christ.

Annabel blushed. “Orange who?”

“Orange you going to give us a break by taking Florence’s cash? Come on, Annabel, it’s Christmas. That is a great name,” she repeated to herself.

The cashier was fully smiling at Isabella now. She extended her arm towards Florence and took her twenty, but didn’t break eye contact with Isa the entire time, and looked at her almost with adoration. Florence was horrified, albeit a little grateful. She hated – _hated_ the way people with money always got what they wanted.

Then Isa turned to her. “So you’re fine, now, Florence. Merry Christmas. Joe, Merry Christmas.”

Annabel handed Florence back some coins and rather than listen to her thank yous, she interrupted her. “Take your change and get out of my queue.”

Florence turned to at least say thanks to Isabella, but she’d vanished.

-=-

Tom and Florence were in charge of putting up Christmas decorations at The Shop Around The Corner, but they were both in terrible moods. Tom had walked past Machine earlier that day, and seen a poster in their window announcing that Kate Nash was going to be doing a signing there in the new year. His heart broke for Florence, but he knew better than to mention it to her. There was every chance that she wouldn’t have noticed the sign yet, as she wasn’t exactly the most perceptive of people. He’d leave it to one of the kids to break the news to her.

Florence, on the other hand, was extremely aware that as she knelt in the shop window disentangling fairy lights, every single person who walked past was carrying a Machine shopping bag. Sure, The Shop Around The Corner was making quite a bit extra now and their loyal customers wouldn’t have gone elsewhere for their Christmas shopping, but Tom had just told her that although they were taking more, it was not as much as last year. And Florence had been expecting it.

From: queenofpeace  
To: halloween152  
 _It’s coming on Christmas, they’re cutting down trees. Do you know that Joni Mitchell song? I wish I had a river I could skate away on. It’s such a sad song. And not really about Christmas at all, but I was thinking about it tonight as I was decorating my Christmas tree. I was missing my parents so much I almost couldn’t breathe. I always miss my parents at Christmas, but somehow it is worse this year since I need some advice from them. I need them to make me a hot chocolate and tell me that everything that is going badly in my life will sort itself out._

-=-

Biggie waved in and out the legs of Isabella’s chair as she tried to type a single sentence. _What kind of advice do you need? Can I help?_

She gasped when a reply came almost immediately.

_Can you help? I wish you could help._

Queenofpeace must have been online and Isabella could not recall this ever happening before. She knew that there was an instant messaging function somewhere, and she double clicked queenofpeace’s name and stared at the small, blank window that had popped open, wondering if she should take the plunge.

_I had a gut feeling you would be online now,_ she typed. _I can give you advice. I’m great at advice._

Florence stared at her computer, dumbfounded. So this was new. And she didn’t know if she could do instant messaging. Stuart was going to come home any minute and she didn’t have a lot of time.

_If only you could help,_ she sent back.

Isa’s heart ached for her nameless correspondent. She had a horrible suspicion that the advice she needed might be relationship related, and looked at the screen through her fingers after she willed herself to ask, _Is it about love?_

“Please say no. Please say no. Please say no,” she chanted. She invited Biggie to jump into her lap for some physical comfort. Somehow she kept forgetting how heavy he was, and he knocked the wind right out of her lungs.

A chime signalled queenofpeace’s reply. _Cute, but no. My business is in trouble._

That was ideal. That was Isa’s bread and butter.

halloween152: _I’m a brilliant businesswoman. It’s what I do best. What’s your business?_

queenofpeace: _No specifics, remember?_

halloween152: _Well, without specifics it’s hard to help, except to say – “go to the mattresses”._

queenofpeace: _What? What does that mean?_

halloween152: _It’s from The Godfather. It means you have to go to war._

queenofpeace: _What is it with people and the Godfather? I’ve never even seen it._

halloween152: _Well, The Godfather is like a bible. It’s the sum of all wisdom. It has the answer to any question. What should I pack for my summer vacation? “Leave the gun, take the cannoli”. What day is it? “Maanday, Toosday, Thursday, Wednesday”. The answer to your question is “go to the mattresses”. You’re at war, it’s not personal, it’s business. IT’S NOT PERSONAL, IT’S BUSINESS. recite that to yourself every time you feel like you’re losing your nerve. I know you worry about being brave – this is your chance! Fight! Fight to the death!_

Florence heard the front door and quickly closed her instant messaging window, thinking that she’d have to apologise to halloween152 another time. She was being so helpful and encouraging, and Florence had just had to leave without saying goodbye.

Stuart peeked in the doorway, only to find Florence pretending to be googling Joni Mitchell lyrics.

“Stuart.” She rested her chin on her hand. “I’ve decided to go to the mattresses. Do you think it would be a gigantic conflict of interest if you wrote a piece about the store?”

He tilted his head. “Yes.”

“Yes?” Florence mimicked his movement. She’d read somewhere that this actually influenced people to be more malleable.

“Yes. But I’ll do it anyway, Flo.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Thank you!” A beat. “Do you know what it means to go to the mattresses?”

“Yeah, it’s from The Godfather,” he shrugged, and left the room.

-=-

Stuart had published his piece. And off the back of that piece he’d had a radio interview, and was going to appear on morning television at some point.

Suddenly, people were aware of The Shop Around The Corner. Some of their most loyal customers had staged a small protest outside the Machine megastore, to coincide with reporters coming to survey the area and get a statement from Florence. The phone was ringing off the hook, people were asking Tom if he’d share their figures, and Rob was walking around with a framed copy of the article, declaiming, “So you do not have to look to any of the usual places where good and evil face off, the places Herodotus called ‘the happy land of absolutes’. We have a perfect example here in South London, where the cold cash cow Machine Megastore threatens survival of a temple to one of the twentieth century’s most profound truths: You Are What You Listen To.”

“I really believe that!” Stuart said proudly, while massaging Florence’s tense shoulders before her big moment. She was going to stand on a podium. She was going to have a microphone. Florence didn’t even have a microphone when she _sang_. But this time, she was going to be heard, and it was all because of him.

“Save The Shop Around The Corner and you will save your soul.” Rob finished reading and put the frame back down on the counter. “Good work, Stu.”

“You don’t think that’s a little over the top?” He asked.

But no one had time to answer as Florence was whizzed out of the store to address a small crowd, while across the road, their supporters, some of them with their children in tow, were chanting “One, two, three, four, we don’t want your megastore.”

She blinked several times and took in the familiar faces of more of her customers, mixed in with a few journalists who were looking at her with mild interest. Several cameras were pointing to her; she felt impossibly young and far too old all at the same time, and she wanted to give up before she’d even opened her mouth – so much for going to the mattresses. Stuart kept saying that it was good timing, it was almost Christmas and the story of a struggling local business would tug at people’s heartstrings. It was the perfect time of year to try and turn things around for The Shop Around The Corner.

-=-

Isabella and Birdie both had the day off, and they’d decided to spend the morning at the gym, and the afternoon getting manicures. They were almost at the end of their stint on the treadmill, when something caught Isa’s attention on the big screens that they insisted on having in every corner, even though they were perpetually on mute.

Florence Welch, wearing a ridiculous rust-coloured coat with a curly fur lapel and a panama hat, was speaking – from a fucking _podium_ – and the close captioning said “They have to have discounts and coffee because most Machine employees have never even turned a radio on”.

Isabella slowed down to a walk and commented, “She’s not even as nice as she seems on television.”

“You’ve met her?” Birdie asked.

“Yeah, I have. She’s a pain in the backside.”

Birdie dabbed her forehead with her towel. “Probably not as good looking as they’ve made her up for tv either.”

Isa glanced up briefly but, weird dress sense aside, Florence didn’t really look any different than any other time she’d seen her.

“No, no, she’s actually beautiful.” She never even knew that that was her opinion until she said it. “But she’s a pain.”

“You don’t feel bad about basically sending her back to the jobcentre? Broke, single white lady?”

Isa shook her head. “It’s not personal…”

“…it’s business.” Birdie concluded. “Hey look, that’s you up there!”

The tv showed a clip of Isabella – a stark counterpart to Florence’s boho style in an immaculate black suit and collared white shirt – which was simply captioned, “I sell cheap music. I do. So sue me.”

The next subtitle said “And that, in a nutshell, is Machine’s philosophy.”

“Girl,” Birdie shook her head, “that’s all you could think of?”

“No, that is NOT all I said!” Isa slammed her hand on the treadmill controls, bringing it to a halt. “I can’t believe those bastards. I said we were great. I said you could listen to five albums in a row in our comfortable armchairs and no one would bother you. I said we had 150’000 titles. I showed them the ‘Born in SE’ section.”

With each item on her list she got louder and pointed at the tv accusingly. “I was personable! I was eloquent! And these motherfuckers just want to turn her into the next Joan of Arc!”

“I’ve met Isabella Summers.” Florence Welch said, on screen. “And I’ve heard her compare her store to Lidl.”

Isabella slapped the console of the treadmill with her towel and stormed out.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When not even a tv appeal works to save The Shop Around The Corner, Florence turns to halloween152 for business advice, and they finally agree to meet in person. Unfortunately someone else shows up in her place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to what's probably the angstiest chapter in this fic.

The woman interviewing Stuart wasn’t really someone Florence had ever heard of; she didn’t watch much tv, let alone morning programmes. The interview had been shown live earlier that day, while Florence was at work, and they’d had to Sky+ it and watch it back after dinner. Stuart had refused to give any spoilers about how it had gone, but he was so much giddier than his usual demeanour, so Florence assumed he was happy with his performance.

The interviewer introduced herself as Emma, and then proceeded to give some background information about Stuart, but Florence was more interested in studying her appearance than hearing her list all of Stuart’s most successful articles. She thought morning television was for middle-aged ladies, but Emma couldn’t have been much older than Florence herself. She had a large mouth, a pointy chin, and what was probably extremely frizzy brown hair that had been straightened within an inch of its life.

“The record store. Tell us about it.”

“The Shop Around The Corner has a purity to it that London needs, in order to maintain its historical integrity. Logically speaking, the world is out of hand, Emma. Have you heard of peer-to-peer? Of course you’ve heard of peer-to-peer. Maybe that’s even how you acquire your music. People these days feel that their internet connection gives them access to all this free stuff. But really, how it began, was with people going to stores, coming out of their houses to connect with people _in person_. To buy and exchange records, based on word of mouth. No one should care whether or not you can buy a hot drink while doing it.”

Florence put her hand on Stuart’s knee. “I’ve heard you say that before.”

He pointed at the tv. “She gets it.”

On screen, Emma nodded enthusiastically as if he’d just opened up a new world to her. This gave Stuart newfound confidence to continue with his explanation. “Now, radio as a platform for new music: that’s a medium I can get behind, much more so than peer-to-peer, or tv.”

If his comment offended her, Emma didn’t show it. She giggled and said, “But you’re on television right now, and you’re good at it.”

Florence turned to stare at him, mouth agape. “Stuart! She’s coming on to you!”

“No, no,” he reassured her, talking over his own embarrassed babbling in the recording, “they do that on tv.”

When the Stuart on tv had regained his composure, he repeated, “The Shop Around The Corner, it’s… a true London treasure.”

“As are you,” Emma responded. This made him laugh out loud both on screen and in real life.

“Honestly, I’d love to have you back on the show.” For a minute it looked like Emma was wiping her forehead and trying to avoid eye contact.

Florence furrowed her brow. “Is she _sweating_?”

“It’s finished, we can turn it off now,” Stuart reached for the remote, but wasn’t quick enough to stop the recording, and Florence heard him say to Emma, “I just want to mention, yours is the only show I do watch.”

“Oh my _god_ ,” Florence rolled her eyes.

“What? I was being polite!”

Florence got up from the sofa and made to move into the kitchen to wash up.

“Okay, maybe I was brown-nosing her a bit. But,” Stuart called after her, “I think it did the trick!”

-=-

“Don’t tell me – not the slightest difference?” Florence had waited until Rob had finished his shift and left to ask Tom about their week so far. It had been three days since Stuart’s interview and, although Florence was still annoyed at the way he and Emma had flirted on live television, she was still hopeful that it would attract more customers. Their store never had more than two in at a time, usually, but she was pretty certain that in the last couple of days there had been five, six people browsing sometimes.

Tom shook his head.

“How can it be? All this publicity and not one bit of difference? What am I going to do? What would Dad have done?”

Tom put his printouts down and walked behind the counter, over to the framed childhood photo of Florence with her father. “Let’s ask him. Nick, what should we do?”

Florence didn’t even turn to look at him and kept leaning on her forearms and staring out their shop window. What she really wanted was to rest her head on the counter and weep, but Tom didn’t deserve the aggravation. She could cry when he was gone.

He put a hand on her shoulder and gently answered his own question.

“He has no idea, Flo. But he thinks the Christmas tree looks great.”

_-=-_

From: queenofpeace  
To: halloween152   
Subject: Advice   
_I need help. Do you still want to meet me?_   
  
From: halloween152   
To: queenofpeace   
Re: Advice   
I would love to meet you. Where/when?

_-=-_

Isabella and Birdie walked side by side, looking for the tea room that queenofpeace had suggested they meet at. Isa had never heard of it, and as neither of them knew what part of London the other lived in, they’d decided to meet centrally.

She knew queenofpeace would be carrying a copy of The Great Gatsby with a rose stuck in the pages. Isa hadn’t shared any recognisable signs about what she would wear or look like, instead taking on the slightly scarier responsibility of going up to queenofpeace and making herself known.

Isa wasn’t sure why she’d asked Birdie to accompany her, or what had even possessed her to reveal to her that she had a secret email correspondent. True, they were friends and not just business partners, and they’d managed to survive three years of Uni and come out still liking each other, but that didn’t mean that they had to know every little detail of each other’s lives.  

“Are you seriously telling me she’s gonna have a book with a flower in it? Oh, man, I reckon she’s ugly.”

“I’m only staying for 10 minutes. I’ll say hello, have a cup of coffee and then go. I hope she doesn’t have a really annoying voice. You know, like, high pitched, or a Janice laugh. Why am I even doing this? Why am I compelled to even meet her?”

“Isa, relax. You’re just taking to the next level. I always do that – I always take a relationship to the next level. If it works out, I take it to the next level after that. Until I finally reach that level where it’s absolutely necessary for me to leave!”

Birdie’s laugh was loud and usually infectious, but Isa felt no mirth.

“I won’t stay that long anyway. I already said that, didn’t I?”

“You did.”

Part of her was annoyed that Birdie hadn’t picked up that there was anything different with her. She was a lousy best friend, from that point of view. When ever had Isa been jittery about a date? Never. Never in the eight years she and Birdie had known each other. Isabella had always been breezy about relationships. If they worked out, great. If they didn’t, that was fine too. She bounced back easily and she never pined.

“Ok, this is it, this is the café. It’s almost eight, we got here fast didn’t we?” Isa couldn’t bring herself to look at it for too long. Her heart was somewhere near her stomach and she wanted to give herself a moment to calm down before she went in.

“Birdie - this girl is  _the_ most adorable creature I’ve ever spoken to. If she turns out even to be as good looking as a wheelie bin, I’d still be crazy not to turn my life upside down and marry her.”

Her mention of marriage was probably the thing that drove the message home with Birdie that this was serious. She had the good sense not to mention that Isa was technically in a relationship with Christina, she just said good luck and made to leave, but Isabella grabbed her by the arm and didn’t let her.

“Would you go and look for me? Just have a look through the window and check her out – I’m nervous.”

“You’re pathetic, girl.”

Birdie walked up the four steps to the café and looked through the glass doors. Isabella could see that the store-front and the inside were both painted bright pink, and for a minute she felt like she was going to walk in and find out that the girl of her dreams was Elle Woods.

Birdie turned back to her. “I see a very beautiful girl… she’s gorgeous.”

Isa was so overjoyed she was struggling to breathe. “I knew she would be!”

“But no book.” If they’d been close enough, Isa would have punched her. “Ooh! I can see a book with a flower so it’s got to be her.”

“What does she look like? Can you see her?”

“Nope, waiter’s in the way. Okay, he’s moving now.”

 _"Can you see her?_ ” Isa’s voice came out strained, almost like a squeak.

Birdie didn’t respond.

Isa stomped her feet, partly to keep warm and partly out of impatience. “Can you see her?”

It wasn’t a good sign that Birdie came back down the stairs then. “Yeah…”

“And?”

“She’s very pretty.” She attempted a smile.

Isa jumped up and down, unable to suppress a grin. Birdie was stunning, so if she ever acknowledged someone as ‘very pretty’ it meant they were at the very least a supermodel. “I knew it!”

“You know what, she almost has the same colouring as that Florence person, from that record store.”

“Florence Welch?”

“Why not? You said she was attractive.” Birdie said, but it sounded more like a question than a statement.

“Absolutely, she’s very attractive, but who cares about Florence Welch??”

“Well, if you don’t like Florence Welch, I can tell you right now – you’re not going to like this girl. Because it _is_ Florence Welch.”

A dizziness came over Isabella then, the blood drained so rapidly from her face that she felt unsteady on her feet. How was this possible? The person who’d snipped at her several times, who had gone on tv to denounce just how bad a person Isa was, was also the person who sent her confessions and complaints and opened up about how much she was hurting all the time?

Florence Welch thought Isabella was a monster. Florence Welch wanted to be horrible to Isa, but couldn’t. And Isa had felt so protective of her when she didn’t know that _she_ was the subject of those emails.

Every time something was wrong, every time queenofpeace was down in the dumps, Isa wanted nothing but to hold her - even though at her height, she often had trouble holding anyone who wasn’t a child. But she couldn’t hold her, or offer comfort, not when _she_ was the one that made Florence want to be the worst version of herself. Frankly, the feeling had been mutual up until that point, at least in real life; but her email alter ego felt the exact opposite: she wanted to be the _best_ that she could be for queenofpeace.

And now, Isa guessed she had to try to be the best she could for Florence Welch.

“Well then,” she mustered out. “I guess I’d better go.”

“Home? You’re just going to… let her wait there?” Birdie asked.

“Yeah, what else can I do?” An idea was starting to form in Isabella’s mind, but it wasn’t anything she could discuss with Birdie just yet, and she needed some time to herself. She started walking away from the coffee shop and didn’t wait for her friend to follow.

“See you tomorrow,” she shouted out over her shoulder. Really, she was just going to walk in a circle and come back when Birdie was gone.

She would have to dust off her acting chops, which had been dormant since probably primary school, in feigning that this was actually a chance encounter. But in her mind, if she could only show Florence that she, too, was only human at the end of the day, maybe Florence would forgive her. Maybe they could start again.  

She went in and pretended to look at the cakes and pastries on offer. Could this be the same person that she had stayed up late talking to? The person that she was never too tired for and who she wanted to hear from at 3am just like at 3pm? She saw Florence check her watch; she saw her scramble to stop a man from taking the spare chair at her table, claiming she was expecting someone; she saw her sigh, and she saw her flinch when she finally spotted Isabella at the counter.

It wasn’t until the barista had given her her change and her tray that Isabella made eye contact with Florence. Try as she might to hide behind a book, she wasn’t exactly inconspicuous with her bright hair and long limbs. Isa’s smile came naturally, and inappropriately fast, when they acknowledged each other, but after the initial excitement, all she felt was nerves.

“Florence Welch - fancy seeing you here,” she said, pulling out the chair across from the redhead. “Mind if I sit?”

“Actually, yes,” Florence didn’t miss a beat. “I’m expecting someone.”

Isabella took a closer look at what Florence was wearing, how she’d done her makeup. Flowy, flowery blouse, a brown suede waistcoat, and her hair was tied up in milkmaid braids. Her eyes were a rare shade of green – Isa didn’t think she’d ever noticed them before. So, she thought, this was queenofpeace. She glanced down at the book on the side of the table – the one that Florence had stuck a red rose in.

“The Great Gatsby, huh?”

Florence pulled the book back towards her as if Isa could hurt it just by looking at it. “Do you mind??”

“I bet you love that book. I bet you re-read it every year. I bet you can’t wait for Gatsby and Whatshername to have their happy ending.”

A barista came over to ask Florence if she wanted another tea and Isa if her food was okay.

“She’s not staying!” Florence replied, cross.

“I’ll just keep you company until your friend comes. Is she late?” For a minute, Isa considered insinuating that Florence was waiting for a date with a guy. But she didn’t want to suggest that Florence would do that behind her boyfriend’s back. Which reminded her – Florence had a _boyfriend_. What the hell was she doing flirting with random women on the internet? Had that even been flirting at all? If this wasn’t already enough of a trainwreck, there was the very real possibility that Isa had misunderstood the nature of their exchanges.

In one breath, Florence explained, “The whole idea of romance in The Great Gatsby is the subject of great discussion. Many people think it’s not a love story at all. Technically, we don’t even know how one of the two characters involved even feels about it. Not that you would know.”

“I _have_ read The Great Gatsby. As a matter of fact, I love reading in general. I would have gone into publishing if I’d had any kind of say what to do with my life. You could discover a lot of things if you really knew me.” Isa knew that this approach was not going to work with Florence, yet she was far too set in her ways, and by the time she realised she should probably turn the arrogance down a notch, it was too late.

“If I really knew you, you know what I would find? Instead of a brain, a cash register, and instead of a heart, a bank account.” Florence gasped. “Oh my god, I just had a breakthrough.”

Isa was confused. “What?”

“I just had a breakthrough and I have _you_ to thank for it. For the first time in my life, when confronted with a horrible, insensitive person I knew exactly what I wanted to say and I SAID IT!” Florence clapped enthusiastically, and although she’d just called her _horrible and insensitive_ , Isa almost wanted to congratulate her on that milestone.

“It was excellent, for a first try – it was the perfect blend of poetry and meanness. Beginner’s luck?” She smirked. Once again she was slipping into sarcastic, biting, non-email Isa. And she didn’t want to be that person any more; she couldn’t already be faltering after less than half an hour.

“Is this a red rose?” She pointed at the flower, but Florence snatched it away before she could touch it.

“Not exactly – it’s blood orange.”

“Something you heard in a song, probably?”

“It’s funny to you, isn’t it? Everything is a joke to you.” Isa hadn’t meant to mock Florence at all.

Every time the door chimed, both of them would turn to look, and luckily for Isa it never once was a woman on her own. Every time, it became clearer that the mystery person Florence was waiting for was not going to show up.

The corner or Florence’s mouth began to twitch and Isa knew that she was trying to hold back tears. In turn, her heart felt like someone was ripping it out of her chest, but taking their sweet time.

“Please leave.” Florence choked on her words, confirming Isa’s theory. “Please, please leave. I beg you.”

Isa stood up to retrieve her leopard print coat from the back of the chair, but she only moved to the next table over, so that she and Florence ended up sitting back to back.

Florence picked up her phone from the table, wanting to text Mairead, Rob, _anyone_ about this unfortunate encounter. But she could feel Isabella’s presence behind her, a faint hint of her breath on her ear. She’d twisted around on her chair into what looked to be a terribly uncomfortable position, and was now staring at Florence’s cracked phone screen over her shoulder.

She kept her voice level. “Look, when I said the thing about Lidl, that’s not what I meant.”

“Oh, you poor sad millionaire. I feel so sorry for you.”

The door opened once again, and a chav decked head to toe in chenille and Tiffany imitations stepped into the café.

“I’ll take a wild guess that’s not her either. So who is she, I wonder? Certainly not the guy who waxes philosophical about his Macbook. Will you be mean to her too?”

“No, I won’t. The woman who’s coming here tonight is completely unlike you. She’s kind, and funny – she has the most wonderful sense of humour.” It looked like Florence almost found comfort in that description – she smiled to herself a little, and Isa unconsciously mirrored her.  

“But she’s not here, is she?”

“If she’s not here there must be a reason, because there isn’t a cruel or careless bone in her body. But I wouldn’t expect you to understand that. You’ve deluded yourself into thinking you are some sort of music guru, bringing records to the masses. But no one will ever remember you, Isabella Summers. And maybe nobody will remember me either, but plenty of people remember my Dad, and think that his store was something special. You are nothing but a power suit and those 4 inch stilettos of yours.”

Isa did not cry very often, and she most certainly didn’t cry in public. But that comment punched her in the gut and knocked the wind out of her and she had to use every bit of energy in her body to not react to it. To keep her eyes unblinking and her gaze steady on Florence. But her throat was closing up and she didn’t trust herself to speak or to argue.

“That was my cue,” she choked out, “have a good night.”

She strolled out with certainty and purpose – the same qualities that she’d learnt on the job, the same qualities that everyone expected her to have every fucking second of every fucking minute and that sometimes she would have liked to just throw out the window. Isabella was not just the company; she was _not_ just the family business. But she had a really hard time making anyone else see that.

-=-

Florence trudged back home exhausted, both physically and emotionally. The rose had ended up in the plastics box in her front garden – she would move it to the proper bin when she remembered – and she’d crawled into bed fully dressed, not before having checked her email of course. She was greeted with a sad, scornful zero. Whoever said one was the loneliest number had clearly never talked to a stranger online.

-=-

Isabella was trying to concentrate on whatever Christina was saying to her, but mostly it felt like she was being talked _at_ , and really and truly, she didn’t care. She went through the motions of getting out of her ‘power suit’, as Florence had called it, and into silk pyjamas, all the while hearing a background noise of incessant natter and wishing it would just stop. She craved silence – to think about her next move, to repent, to maybe allow tears to fall, for once. But she didn’t have any of those things. She just had money, a big house, and a girlfriend who wouldn’t shut up.

**Author's Note:**

> All the secondary characters with non-FATM related names are named after characters in the original film, as a homage.


End file.
